The Other Chosen One
by LynnettaCaine
Summary: Sibyll Trelawney's prophecy spoke of two boys who could defeat the Dark Lord. This is the story of the boy Voldemort, and the rest of the world, forgot. *Rated M for future chapters*


Chapter One: Remembrance

Neville Longbottom slouched next to his mother's bedside, hands clasped tightly together to prevent their shaking from being visible. She was dying, and much to his own surprise, Neville was _happy_. He would miss his mother, to be sure, but for the last 23 years, she wasn't much of a mother at all. She didn't recognize him, but it wasn't her fault. _Hell,_ Neville thought, _if she looked in a mirror she probably couldn't recognize herself! _

Apart from his mixed grief and relief, he felt rage, an untapped rage that had been stewing inside of him since he was only a child. His parents were tortured to insanity by Death Eaters, and he never, not even after killing on of Voldemort's final Horcruxes, got over that. And with that rage was its partner, depression. He shook his head slightly, trying to remove some of the negative thoughts that kept buzzing around like Cornish pixies.

A small hand laid itself on his shoulder, but he had no energy to turn around to see who had come to visit. "Neville," Luna's soft voice said from behind him, "I'm really very sorry."

He could feel his face reddening and his hands shaking more. Every time someone said sorry to him, it made him angrier. It wasn't their fault his entire family was dead or in the process of dying. It wasn't their fault that no one had ever believed in him. It wasn't their fault that Voldemort had chosen to attack Harry Potter, inadvertently making _him_ the most well-known and most respected wizard of all time. Neville stood and turned to face Luna. The few months since he had seen her seemed to have treated her better than they had treated him. Her silvery hair glimmered in Saint Mungo's bright lights, her eyes were wide, and she seemed well rested. Her official Healer badge was pinned to her simple lime robe; she was one of the witches and wizard attempting to treat his mother.

"You need some sleep," she said gently, a faint frown tugging at her lips.

This set him off.

"Sleep?" he shouted, outraged. "How can I sleep with this," he gestured to his comatose mother, "on my mind? How can I sleep when all I can think about is how all of this could have been prevented if I was never a part of that goddamned prophecy? How, Luna?" His shoulders slumped and he stood there huffing, watching as Luna's serene face briefly looked as if she would cry.

"I'm sorry," he started, genuinely apologetic, but she interrupted.

"I understand; you're upset." Her voice sounded as soft and cool as it always did. She stuck her pale hand deep into her robe's pocket and pulled out a palm-sized glass orb with smoke swirling about in it. She held it out to him and he took it. It felt cool in his sweaty hands. "Harry told me that he found this when he was cleaning out Grimmauld Place the other day, and he wanted me to give it to you. He figured you'd be here, therefore I would see you first." She turned and left the room, off to attend to other patients.

The smoke in the Remembrall was turning ruby, a color not unlike blood. He kissed his mother on the forehead, smoothing back her short, messy curls, and retrieved his wand from the small nightstand. In a dizzying swirl of an Apparation, he was home.

Home for him lately was a boring flat on the outskirts of wizarding London. He had inherited his grandmother's estate but living in the giant, creaky house alone had no appeal to him, so he rented this place. It wasn't bad; there was enough room for two, and, because he was alone, that meant enough room for a small indoor garden. He took a moment to water the new addition: a tiny Flitterbloom. This friendly relative to the Devil's Snare made a nice household plant, even if it wasn't the most attractive of plants. It curled a tendril around his finger gently. After extracting himself from its slightly ticklish grasp, he sat on his sagging, grey sofa and stared at the telly for a while, not really paying attention to the overly-dramatized retelling of some historic event that no one really cared about.

He remembered the Remembrall that Luna had handed him, and he pulled it from his pocket, where he had tucked it before Apparating. As soon as it had touched his hands, the smoke started to glow red. "You're a useless thing, aren't you?" he said aloud. "You tell people that they've forgotten something, but don't tell them what they've forgotten. What good is that?" The anger that had risen in him earlier returned and he stood up quickly.

"You're just a piece of garbage that isn't nearly as useful as other pieces of equipment. No one actually enjoys having you around." It was around this time where he stopped talking to the orb in his hands, and started talking to himself. "You're really not magical, or helpful, or needed. You're useless!" A sudden urge told him to through the Remembrall, and he did. It shattered against his wall just like non-magical glass, releasing the red smoke into the air, where it slowly dissipated. He sighed and sank back down into his couch, anger gone, taking his energy with it.

On days like this, his memories came and went like waves in a stormy ocean: hard, cold, and swift. Some memories he liked, but others made him cry like he had when he was young, alone in his bedroom. These memories are the ones he wished weren't real.


End file.
